The Lady Of The House....

travel has become one form of negligence.

in the house the words are waiting
they become grass

turning into weeds, they grow thorns on their stalks
warning you of a revenge

when you come back the path is barred
you have to cut weeds to enter the door

the door cannot embrace you
it hints you with a door knob to welcome you back

the computers suffer a breakdown
and the fan has become a throttle less the air

you have so many things to tell the room
but the blankets are still covering their ears

your lady who had been waiting impatiently
removes her dress

and you see how wounded are her breasts.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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